Nihil Sine Deus
by Strange and Intoxicating -rsa
Summary: For darkness there must be light. For mortals there must be gods. For life there must be sacrifice. Tom Riddle/Harry Potter
1. Prologue

Nihil Sine Deus

By: Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-

For darkness there must be light. For mortals there must be gods. For life there must be sacrifice.

**This story will contain: language, violence, gore, death, torture, use of religious symbolism from Christianity (More particularly, Roman Catholicism) and a wide range of other religions (from Pagan to Shinto Gods and Goddesses), sexual intercourse, heterosexuality, and homosexuality. Spoilers through all seven books, with varying degrees of usage. This story will take place after _Goblet of Fire._**

**Pairings: Tom Riddle/Harry Potter, Various Heterosexual Pairings, Various Homosexual Pairings**

_Author Notes: Nihil has been in vague planning stages for years—from my memory, at least eight. It's funny that I finally decided to write the story out, rather than letting it rot in my head for all eternity. It's rather nice to write for the Harry Potter fandom again; I haven't even attempted to do it since my spectacular fail of a first public-known fan fiction. Oh, how I will never do that again._

_Please note that religion is one of the most important parts of this story—it is the tangled web that has been weaved, so to say. I have spent years researching into this, just for this particular story. I have sat down in my computer chair, a copy of the Bible on one side, next to Paradise Lost, and on the other are all 7 Harry Potter books, and a little over a dozen texts on religion throughout the muggle world. I won't preach—it would be weird, considering I'm Agnostic (I was raised a Roman Catholic, so I'm well-versed in a god portion of what I write, and the rest has been researched), but some of the Muggle characters in this story will. After all, one cannot properly wage war against Wizarding Kind without the use of religion._

_The prologue will be considerably shorter than the actual chapters of the story—alas, how am I supposed to start something off with long lines of exposition and bore the ever-loving hell out of you?_

_Also, a quick note about characters, and character bashings: Frankly, they put me off reading stories, so I will not have them here. Please don't expect that because of the pairing, that I'll have Harry bashing Dumbledore__, the Weasley's, or anyone else. In the same vein, don't expect him to love the Slytherins without any explanation. I like in character characters._

Disclaimer: I, Strange and Intoxicating -rsa-, do not own, think I own, or will ever own the Harry Potter series. I am but a humble servant (or perhaps slave) to the whim of fickle ideas.

* * *

Prologue

* * *

_Greedily she engorg'd without restraint,_

_And knew not eating death._

_Satiate at length,_

_And heighten'd as with wine,_

_Jocund with boon,_

_Thus to herself she pleasingly began._

_-John Milton, Paradise Lost, (9.791-46)_

* * *

**October 31, 1979**

Lily Potter sat in the church, her hands clasped together in prayer. The bare sound of her breath and the occasional gust of wind knocking against the church's heavy doors were her only companions. Despite the time that had passed since she arrived—it must have been well over six hours since the priest had offered to speak with her—she had yet to move. She declined his offer, choosing instead to sit alone in the darkness. What comfort could she be offered?

She wore a black veil partially to hide from the Death Eaters who were out looking for her blood, but she knew it was a poor excuse, at best. The Death Eaters would not bother her, not here.

They would not dare.

But, Lily thought as she rubbed the black tulle between her fingers, _Why did this keep happening?_

Churches weren't places Lily normally found herself in; she grew up in a Christian household where religion was present but not persistent. Only on holidays did the Evans family find themselves particularly religious, or for particular religious rites of passage, which the Evans family firmly believed of importance. When Lily realized that she was different she all but completely stopped going to church, fearing that if anyone found out about her status as a witch that they would destroy her. Once she even feared that she would burn to death if she stepped into the Holy House of God, only to have Severus drag her inside to prove her wrong. But she could still remember the fear that raced through her veins when he grabbed her hand and dragged her, screaming and begging, through the wooden doors that towered over her like giants.

Sure, she became more accustomed to churches the more she realized that God himself would not strike her down for entering such a holy place, yet it didn't fully make sense why Lily's feet would trek the same path from their cottage in Godric's Hollow when she could muster up the courage.

Last time was almost four months ago—she had lit three candles before taking her seat in one of the back pews, far enough back that she was close to the exit, but to the side so she could hide in the shadows. She always sat in the pew next to the painted glass window of Mary and the baby Jesus—

_Why I chose this row I'll never know._

Lily sighed and wiped her cheeks with a handkerchief already wet with her tears. Today she lit four candles.

The Wizarding World was in chaos with Voldemort attacking at every opportunity, his Death Eaters a well-orchestrated monster that snapped its teeth at the jugular of anyone willing to stand in their way. James told her the day before that what was happening to them wasn't because of fate or a cosmic revelation. It was that they were in a middle of a damn war and Lily spent much of her time stressed and worrying about their friends and family. The miscarriages weren't her fault—it was the entire situation that lead up to the loss of four unborn children.

Her unborn babies.

Lifting the tear-stained handkerchief back to her face, Lily felt a shudder run through her body. This couldn't just be about stress—there must have been something else involved with why she hadn't been able to carry a baby fully to term. She was healthy and more than ready for a child, and despite her husband's wish for them to wait until after the war, something inside of her called for a child more than anything. Why, Lily couldn't say. All she knew was that every time she miscarried it tore her apart.

"I don't know what to do," Lily whispered into the cloth. There wasn't any answer that anyone could give her—Poppy and the other healers didn't understand why. She even asked Dumbledore to check her for old, dark curses that maybe someone afflicted her with during an attack. Anything, any answer, was better than the unknown.

"God?" she asked, getting on her knees, dropping the cloth on the pew next to her. "I don't understand."

It felt like someone whispered in her ear. The skin on her next prickled with goosebumps and for a moment it felt like there was something weighing her down, pulling her from her belly down. The feeling left Lily out of breath, her body shaking. It felt like something was next to her, _watching _her.

A hand brushed against her arm and Lily was on her feet, wand flipped from the crook of her arm in an instant.

"Hey!" James put his hands up in a gesture of mock-surrender. "Hey," he said again, softly. "It's just me. I wanted to get you—it's dawn already. I made you some breakfast, thought it would make you feel better." Her husband reached up and took the veil off her head, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "Why don't you come back to the house?"

Lily swept her wand back into her holster, putting one hand on her stomach. What had been that weight pulling on her? Did she have to go back to the healers to make sure that she was okay?

_But why did it feel like someone was watching me? _

* * *

**February 16th, 1980**

The healers told her that her pregnancy was going remarkably well—she finally passed through the first trimester without miscarrying. From what Healer Templer told her, the baby by all accounts was perfectly healthy.

Lily cried.

* * *

**April 4th, 1980**

_A dream, _Lily told herself, once again, it was just a dream.

She sat in her kitchen, staring at the dark knots in the maple table. Her hand absently circled a ring of discoloration where she placed her tea every night, for the last six weeks, or so. It gave her comfort, to some degree; feeling something under her hands, something that was tangible and so very, very _real._

She couldn't call them nightmares. There was nothing, technically, scary about what visited her in her sleep—in fact, it was a sweet, soft presence that seemed to reach a small hand out for her's, wanting to be touched, to be adored. It was the soul of her child, she thought, the child in her belly, growing from the nourishment and love she presented to it.

_What would you give for me, Lily Potter? What would you sacrifice to bring me into this world? _

Anything. She would happily give her life for the child inside her; would die a thousand times to protect her baby, the baby she wanted more than life itself. She would never admit it to her husband, but being a mother sometimes felt like her entire purpose to be on earth; she was just meant to bring life. Her mother once told her the man who baptized her foresaw birth in the water in his hand. Later, Monsignor Nicolai told her, on the day of her first Communion, that she should take the name Margaret (for the Saint Margaret of Antioch, who fearlessly and without temptation secured her virtue from the dragon Satan himself conjured, only to be beheaded by the heathen pagans she called her townspeople(**1)**) as her Christian name for her Confirmation. She only nodded her head and allowed the man of God to place the Eucharist on her tongue and tip the deep red wine into her mouth.

It tasted of blood and shame.

It was the day before she received her Hogwarts letter...

Lily shook her head and grabbed the handle of her cup, taking a taking a sip of the now cold tea.

_Would you follow my word and place your trust in me? _

It scared her how much she wanted to believe in the words she heard. Magic, maternal instinct, her own imagination, or perhaps a contrived combination of the three—what she did know was that she wanted to believe, more than anything, that she was hearing her child.

The voice accompanied her since the day in the Church, on Halloween. Once, she thought it may have been the remnant of a lost soul searching for peace of mind, attaching itself to her on the day the veil between life and death was at its weakest. But, the more she listened to the weak whispers, the more she knew.

She took the fruit from the Forbidden Tree, and tasted the sweet nectar.

And she would do as the voice asked, because she could feel it deep within her.

Calling.

* * *

**April 5th, 1980**

It had been a surprise attack on the Ministry. It was late enough in the morning to be bustling with witches and wizards readying for their day at work, but also early enough to catch most of them before they could fully and completely wake. Lily herself hadn't been able to even finish a cup of coffee before the entire building's foundations shook and the pictures on the walls around her began to crash down.

Immediately awake, jostled by the immediacy of the Death Eater's actions, Lily send her patronus out and down the quaking halls at a gallop. James was on the second floor, she on the ninth. He was no doubt fighting with the intruders, and who knew if anyone else in the Order was able to shoot off a spell to warn the others. The Atrium was just a floor above her and people were no doubt in need of help, but...

Lily looked down at her growing stomach.

There was no safer place she could have been; the Ever-Locked room was impossible to penetrate... But... she felt the breeze of someone touching her, a mouth mumbling words into the shell of her ear.

She kissed her left palm and laid it on her stomach (a gentle kick almost breaking her resolve) before pulling up the black hood of her Unspeakable robe.

This was what she was supposed to do.

* * *

She lay on a cot in St. Mungo's, staring up at the ceiling.

"Oh, Lily," James whispered, kissing her hands over and over. There were tear tracks down his face, and Lily felt one brush against the skin of her palm, more delicate than his lips.

"I saved all those people," Lily whispered, her voice sticking in her throat. "I saved all those people."

"I know, Lily, I know."

"Then why does this hurt so much?"

James untangled one of his hands to place in her long auburn hair. Rubbing circles against her scalp, he said, "Because... because..." he couldn't finish his sentence.

"Am I a bad wife?" Her voice was childlike. "I shouldn't have left the room—I knew it was dangerous, but it felt right... I had to do it."

He shook his head. "You saved at least a dozen people's lives—you took a curse from of the the top Death Eaters and that's why you're here. You saved a lot of people's lives, a lot of people..."

They waited to the healer to come, Lily being stable enough to wait while they saved the lives of others. Her child, if there was anything left, would wait. She understood the reason, understood that an adult right now was far more important than a bundle of cells. Her unborn child couldn't fight against Voldemort, couldn't risk his body and neck on his own accord for the side of Light.

Something lurched in the deepest core of her being, and Lily couldn't contain herself as she vomited up spirals of coffee and bile. Even with her husband's hand in her hair holding it away from her face, she had never felt so alone.

* * *

The doctor arrived shortly after, and with his Healer robes still covered in the blood of innocent people, cast a spell to remove the remains of the Potter's child.

It was a boy.

It _had_ been a boy.

His remains would be put into the Potter mausoleum, a child who would never see a sunset or hear the bell of his mother's sweet voice as he was whisked away into a tender, sweet sleep.

And as all Pure-Blood families required, he was given a name.

* * *

**April 13th, 1980**

There was a kick.

Lily knew of phantom pains; members of the Order who lost limbs during the war sometimes spoke about it—a feeling they knew they couldn't possibly feel, but it existing either way. There were muggle doctors who spoke of it, and she remembered Moody once quoted one, when he explained the feeling of loosing a foot to her. He referred to it as thousands of spirit limbs haunting him, just as it did with any other.

She wondered, for a moment, if her subconscious would do this for the rest of her life—torment her without qualm. She deserved it, she knew, for leaving the Ever-Locked room, for wandering out of safety and into the palm of Voldemort's followers.

But, there was another kick, and Lily could not calm herself, as her breath quickened and she reached for her wand, hidden inside of her robes. She was always particularly good with Charms, and knew the incantation (for she used it more than once) so when she cast it, she knew it was not lying.

She cast it again, just to make sure, and when the light blue light pulsed in front of her to the beat of her child's heart she fell to her knees in prayer.

* * *

"It looks like everything is in order, Lily," Poppy said, only offering a small smile. Lily could see it in the woman's eyes that something was _off, _and she quickly jumped on it.

"Are you sure?" she asked cautiously, holding her hand over her swollen belly, leaning deeper into the white hospital blankets that reminded her of when she was still a student and her only fears were those of classes and friends; not Dark Lords and miscarriages.

The woman bristled away Lily's question, wiping her clean hands on even cleaner robes. "Of course, dear," she murmured. "There just are not many cases when professional healers miss these kinds of things! I have half a mind to call St. Mungo's and launch a formal complaint in your name!" The woman briskly snapped her fingers and a small house-elf with a fig-branch embroidered tea cozy on its head popped into existence. **(2)**

"What cans Samael do for the Mistress Pomfrey?" the boyish house-elf asked, his blue saucer eyes expectantly staring at the woman, adoration clear within their depths.

"Please get the Headmaster; I have a question for him regarding Mrs. Potter, here..."

The elf's ears bent downward. "Samael is very sorrys, Mistress Pomfrey, but the Master Dumbly sayses that the elfs shouldn't come into his roomses today."

Poppy's eyebrow rose up, now hidden by her hat. "He did, now?" She looked critically over the small elf, before huffing. "Then I'll just have to go see him myself! Samael, take care of whatever Mrs. Potter needs," the nurse jostled by, giving Lily a wave, "and don't you move from that spot!"

It was hard for Lily to hide her smile. Poppy would always be Poppy...

The house-elf popped out of existence for a moment before returning, carrying in its small arms a large, heavy silver tray with biscuits and tea, staring at her with his perturbing blue eyes, and a shudder ran down the small of her back. She pushed the thought away and opened her arms for the tray, taking the heavy object from Samael.

"Thank you very much," she said as she placed the metal on the foot of the bed before sweeping a hand through her red hair, smiling at the young, boyish elf. He nodded his head, ears flopping happily at the side of his head.

Lily looked away, grabbing a biscuit and took a bite before offering the plate of sweets to Samael, who barely contained his excitement over the offer, tripping over his feet (though he up righted himself very quickly, she noticed with a hint of curiosity) to rush to her.

"Thank yous," the small elf said as he quickly took one from the plate, looked up at her with the adoration she had seen him give Madam Pomfrey. "Mistress Potter," he asked, squeaky voice seeming to intone with a plea, "can Samael feels the Mistress's belly?" His eyes looked into hers, and touched something very deep, almost hidden inside her.

"O-okay, Samael," Lily whispered, nodding her head with small shakes. She placed her biscuit down on the plate and wiped her hands on the white sheets. "I've only ever had Healers or close friends and family do this, but," _it's a good day. I still have my child. _

"Oh, thanks yous so much! I love babies!" he gushed, and nearly tripped himself again as he darted forward to place his tiny hands on her stomach, his eyes closing in what she could only imagine as rapture.

"He's going to be a very special little boy," the house elf murmured, "a very, very special child. What would you give for him, Lily Potter?" And Lily could hear the change in the house-elf's sweet voice, and when she jerked her head up to look at Samael, the only reminder of his presence was the tray and a little smear of red where his hand lay moments before.

_What would you give for him?_

* * *

**July 31st, 1980**

Blood.

There was blood dripping between her legs, puddling on the white linen. There was so much that the sheets, so saturated with red, couldn't take any more and from the cleaning spells Poppy sent at the floor, it had begun to spill over.

She could feel it on her chin, see it speckled on her husband's glasses, smelled it everywhere. So much...

Her baby would be born in blood.

_What would you sacrifice to bring me into this world? _

"Lily, you need to open your mouth," James begged, holding a blood-replenishing potion to her mouth, and she remembered Monsignor Nicolai holding the chalice of red wine to her lips.

"The blood of Christ," she whispered, turning her head away.

"Get that potion in her before she goes into shock," the nurse yelled as she summoned another house-elf, snapping at it to get more Healers from St. Mungo's.

With a pop the little house-elf with blue eyes disappeared, feet soaked in the sacrificial offering.

Lily could only hear the words whispering in her ear, and she knew the answer.

_Anything._

* * *

"Lily," James was kissing her hair as he spoke, a bundle of blankets cradled in his arm. "Lily, you did it."

She could barely keep her eyes open, her eyelashes glued together by tears that dried. Her throat felt raw and her body on fire, but she fought against it and roughly whispered (though she was unsure if James could hear her) for her child.

Her Harry.

* * *

**October 31, 1981**

And so it is done.

* * *

**(1) **_It is believed, within some circles, that Saint Margaret of Antioch is actually not a true Saint at all, and is in fact the Christian version of Aphrodite, Goddess of love, sexuality, and virility. Since Margaret was to have lived in 304 A.D., it is impossible to tell whether there is truth to this particular story. Also, she has cults. A lot of them... and for being so devoted to a Saint, they do apparently __participate in some bizarre orgies. _

**(2) **_Samael. I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count._

**Thank you so much for reading; I don't think that I can properly convey how happy it makes me that I finally plucked up the courage to put this up, and I hope that you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it. **

**Please Review—it would mean the world to me to hear your thoughts so far! **


	2. Chapter One: And so it Begins

Kind thanks to the 25 people who have added this story to their favorites, the 51 who have alerted it, and the 20 lovely people who reviewed the prologue. Thank you so very much for your time and patience with _Nihil Sine Deus._

Before I begin, this story is _going to be offensive _to religion. I was even told maybe I should simply avoid writing it, as this is a kick in the face to a good portion of the fandom. Please, remember I am Agnostic, not shoving religion down your throat. I actually also want to make clear I am not going to make entire religions or cultures _evil _no matter how much it may seem at the beginning. Let's just say this certain sect is fucking insane, and so are their followers.

It's going to be hard making the world fight without insulting everyone. If this bothers you, please do not continue. I really wish to offend no one.

Also, yes Harry was raised as a Catholic (as his mother was) but honestly, this should be one of the least important things about his character once all the others Gods and Goddesses start showing up.

Harry's Biblical Quotes are taken from The New Jerusalem Bible. I am more accustomed to the New American Bible, but it is only taught in the US. The New Jerusalem Bible was published in 1985, making it the canon text closest to being relevant to Harry's childhood.

Other quotes will come from King James Bible.

* * *

_'Do not be afraid; it is I, the First and the Last; I am the Living One,_

_I was dead and look - I am alive for ever and ever, and I hold the keys of death and of Hades._

_Now write down all that you see of present happenings and what is still to come.'_

_-Revelation, 1. 17- 19_

* * *

_June 24th, 1995_

Harry Potter knew that tonight he would die.

The stone against his back was cold and sharp, cutting into the back of his shirt and into his flesh. Harry could feel the name on the gravestone carving into his back like razorblades. Tom Riddle Senior's tomb would house another broken body by the end of this night, he was sure.

Harry did not fear death; no, not fear. In fact, the corner recesses of his mind welcomed it, waited for the embrace of Death like it was an old friend. It was the same part of him that was tainted with Voldemort's presence, the lingering scar engraved to his forehead. The expiration date on his soul was long gone and that infection in him was beginning to sour like curdled milk in the bottle. Death would be a blessing, a way of escaping the nastiness that Voldemort's coming reign would bring.

Cedric Diggory was the first casualty in the Second Wizarding War—but Harry would be the second.

Of course, he didn't really _want_ to die on this night. On the contrary, Harry wanted more than anything to live, at least long enough to protect his friends, his godfather, the thousands of innocent people who would suffer if Voldemort was able to conquer the Wizarding World. But, the price was so very, _very_, steep and more than once, Harry wondered if sacrificing himself for the world was expected.

For some reason, a whisper in his mind haunted him: the Greater Good. Never had the words been spoken to him, read in a book, nor tucked away in his memories. But, like the headstone at his back, it was _there_.

There was blood on the ground before him, where Wormtail had flailed about, holding his pitiful stump of a wrist. Some of it was even his, from the deep, pink wound straight down to the bone in his arm. Macabre the scene may have been, with his sneakers squishing into the slippery, over saturated ground and a muddy paste of blood coating the hems of his pants, something was stirring inside of Harry's head. A plan, maybe, but a spark of an idea was closer to the truth. Like the niggling of unknown words in the back of his head, the blood spoke to him.

Rolling thunder cracked through the air like a whip, and a nearby tree shined for a minute as a bolt of lightning exploded in the sky behind it. For a moment, Harry could have swore the tree had _eyes._

Wiggling his toes, hearing the squelching under his feet, Harry leaned forward against the bindings and felt their strength against his skin. There was no way he could break through the rope. He was weak from blood loss, his head spinning. The pain from the deep wound in his arm was beginning to make the stars in the sky spin and Voldemort's crimson slit eyes multiply. And even then, his leg was practically useless.

There would be no running.

"Now, untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand."

Harry slumped to the ground when Wormtail slashed through the bindings with his new silver hand. The sniveling rat was looking down with glee.

"How the mighty have fallen," Wormtail whispered, stroking his new arm while his front teeth nipped at his bottom lip like vermin he was. The yellow of Wormtail's teeth clashed with the blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. He pulled out Harry's wand and tossed it to the ground, the mud pulling the holly wand down.

"I never said I was mighty," Harry answered back as he reached forward, fingers digging through the bloody dirt in search of his only lifeline, only hope. He felt tree roots under his fingers, and he dug in, feeling the wood splinter under his fingers.

"Harry Potter, the mighty boy who destroyed the Dark Lord..." Voldemort laughed as he spoke with his followers as if he hadn't tortured several of them for their disobedience just moments before. "Here he is, kneeling and digging through the dirt like a pathetic muggle. Your Pure-blood ancestors would be ashamed. Your blood is not worthy of the Potter line—and neither was your father, for that matter. Consorting with a filthy mudblood; I can only imagine what Dorea must have thought of their unholy union."

Harry stopped looking for his wand for a second to pause and look up at Voldemort with a hint of confusion before continuing his search.

"Your paternal grandmother was quite the Black. _Always pure._" There was a sneer to his words. She had not been a fan of Tom Riddle while she was in school, of that Harry was sure. Mixed-blood Slytherins must have been at the bottom of the barrel, and if what Voldemort said prior was true, he had been considered a poor, uncultured _Muggle-born_. Violence against Muggle-borns in other Houses by Slytherins was already so high... to think of what they would do to one of their own Housemates...

"But that is no matter, Potter," Voldemort continued as he waved his wand. Harry snapped up, like he were on puppet strings. Thankfully, he had clutched his wand just as he was hit with the spell and so when he was lifted off the ground, feet dangling and body lax, he was not left completely without some form of defense.

_Don't kid yourself_, his mind whispered, _you're as defenseless as a baby kitten. What could you possibly do to prevent the strongest, darkest wizard of your time from ripping out your innards and stringing them up like streamers?_ It was the same voice whispering for his to lay himself down and accept death with his arms stretched open. It was the morbid voice telling him that one death would save the world, for the Greater Good.

Always the Greater Good.

Blood pumped through Harry's ears as he defied the thought, pushing it back and away from the forefront of his mind. There was no time to listen to the niggling voice; there was _never_ time to listen to the voice. It was such a small part of him (though so very loud...) he could ignore it if truly needed.

He couldn't die yet. Voldemort had to die before he could even think of death. It was his responsibility.

Always his responsibility.

The smell of blood reminded Harry of something in his childhood, during one of the Sunday Masses Aunt Petunia would bring him to once or twice a month. She would dress him in his best, a plain white shirt that hung off his body and black pants five sizes too large, but with pleated legs and only a little wear in the knees. While the Dursleys would sit up front and watch as Dudley acted as a sweet alter boy, Harry would sit upstairs with the choir children, hiding in the shadows of the organ and the plaster statues of marble angels and the Mother Mary and Jesus.

He never knew why he chose that particular pew, but it brought a comfort to him to look at the marble and feel the comfort of a mother's love.

What would Lily have said to his thoughts? She gave her life, only for Harry to throw away his?

The priest had known his mother when she was a child, and spoke of only kind things when he was permitted to see Harry. Aunt Petunia had limited his time spent in the Church after one particular conversation where Monsignor Nicolai spoke almost reverently of Lily. Harry, who knew so little of her, clung to every word until his aunt grabbed him by the collar and dragged him off. The first bit of kindness ever shown to him, ripped away by his family.

But Monsignor Nicolai spoke of something that day. Without much thought, the words dusted across his mind.

_This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Whenever you drink it, do this as a memorial of me._ Harry ran a bloody hand over his lips, remembering the faint presence of bitter wine. He only tasted it once, blessed by God, and he never wanted to taste again.

But if Harry lived to see the sun rise, he would travel to the Church if only as a reminder he was alive.

And so, with temperance, Harry lifted his wand to face the Dark Lord Voldemort.

* * *

_June 25th, 1995_

_Mallory Residence_

_Whitchurch, Shropshire, England_

_**To Mister Albus Dumbledore,**_

_My name is Victoria Mallory, the mother of Jessica Mallory. This morning, I received a letter from your institution offering a place for my daughter at your 'Magic School.' As an upstanding member of the Christian community, I refuse to allow my child to consort with devil worshipers, magicians, and unsavory individuals who deserve nothing more than to burn at the stake. _

_Let me begin my letter by stating that your letter was deeply offensive to me and my child's religion. Witchcraft is a tool used by the Devil to sway Christians away from the light of His glorious domain and into the fiery pits of Hell. My child will not be condemned by your **kind**_**. **_I have spoken with my husband and plan to cleanse our child of any filth she may have been cursed with after opening your letter._

_She is a bright young girl; it is for her own safety, for__**thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.**_

_I have also contacted the local parish families to warn of your traitorous filth, should you contact any other children of good Christian households._

I implore that you travel to the nearest Church and speak to a minister and attempt to save your soul. Even then, acceptance by God after committing the mortal sins of witchcraft and heresy should not be expected. These sins are not to be taken lightly; God casts heretics and witches into the deepest pits of Hell, where there is no light. And pursuing young children for corruption with witchcraft, blasphemy, and sodomy in all forms will gain you no leniency in His eyes.

_Please do not contact my family again._

_Signed, _

_**Victoria Mallory  
**__**Wife of Deacon Matthew Mallory,  
**__**Member of the Sardis Congregation,  
**__**St. Alkmund's Church**_

* * *

"It is time to call in some old friends, Minerva," Albus Dumbledore said as he ran a hand through his white beard, fingers twiddling and plaiting the white hair with little thought. The sparkle in his pale blue eyes was gone now, when it would return a mystery to him. These trying times would be a weight against his back, pulling him to the ground with little energy.

The First Wizarding War had left the generation jaded by death, disease, famine, but more importantly, _fear_. Witches and witches of all calibers refused to say Voldemort's name aloud. Some used the logical response of breaking Taboo—who, after all, would want a Dark Lord popping in on their evening tea, just because they read an article out loud? However, Albus knew deep down that it was not logic that prevented the name from escaping the masses mouths.

Fear.

Albus remembered another boy who wished for fear. He bled children out in front of their screaming parents, killed indiscriminately in hopes to hold the Hallows in his hand, to declare himself above death, above mortal weakness. There was something in a Dark Lord's eyes that reached inside of Albus, past the sherbet lemons, the socks, the twinkling blue eyes and into the raging storm. As a lonely teenager, he could have very well become another Dark Lord just to make sure he would always have his closest friend, his confidant, his _Liebhaber_.

Once upon a time, when Voldemort had been but a child, Albus had known somewhere deep in his weary heart that the boy did not need love, did not crave the warm touch of a mother or the kiss of a lover. In its place, Tom wanted fear. Fear was easier for the little orphan child to understand.

At first, when Albus found out the facts surrounding Tom's birth, he felt pity. He was conceived under the affects of the love potion Merope Gaunt fed the attractive muggle, Tom Riddle. It was not Tom's fault that because of this tainted, one-sided obsession, he could not feel love. He was a child, an innocent victim of one witch's need for attention and affection, false as it was. There was no hope for him; nothing could help save him from the path the boy would find himself traveling.

Difficult as it was to admit, Albus knew Tom would lose his humanity. From the moment he lit the boy's chest of drawers on fire and inside were the trophies of the child's victims, he knew it would be only a matter of time before he was required to yet _again_ contain the empty child of a mother's sin.

For a fleeting moment, Albus thought of what he could have become, had he the ability to love another. Hard working, he would have been a glorious professor, teaching his students and preparing them thoroughly for a life outside of Hogwarts. There would be children; a beautiful boy and girl, with blue eyes deeper than the ocean and blond hair like honey... A partner, holding him through the night whispering sweet nothings as a comfort—

Albus shook his head, erasing his wandering thoughts. Tom Riddle could have never had a normal life and beautiful family, just as Gellert Grindelwald had not.

They were cursed children.

"Headmaster, do you believe Fudge will deny the return of You-Know-Who?" Minerva asked, her hands tucked under the desk, chin defiantly proud and angled.

"His name is Lord Voldemort," he began, and the woman's chin trembled, "and I believe, though it pains me to admit, that we will be alone in this war. We should not expect any help from The Ministry of Magic, nor the Minister for Magic. We must, unfortunately, begin this war with all our cards laid out on the table." Cornelius Fudge would make defeating Tom so much more difficult than it should have been; having the Wizarding World stuck between believing in the Headmaster of Hogwarts and the Minister for Magic was a tricky predicament. There were no right answered in regards to which way to go, which family to depend on, which Ministry worker to induct into the Order of the Phoenix.

"Albus, the memories of the First War are still so fresh. I am not sure the Wizarding World would be willing to admit to itself there is another war on the horizon." Minerva's pallor was beginning to look sickly, and a sheen of sweat glittered on her brow. "It took almost ten years for Britain to accept You-Know—fine, Voldemort— existed at all! It only became obvious when he began to attack powerful Pure-blood Light families, such as the Potters. And remember, so few were willing to fight in the beginning because they believed the Dark deserved the rights to their culture and traditions."

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "There are no doubts that the Dark has a deep influence on the Wizarding World, and I do not ask for the destruction of their ways. However, the abuse of those seen as inferior and seclusion of magical bloodlines is dangerous to the Wizarding World. The population of Pure-bloods is dwindling, Minerva." Pulling his glasses off, Albus placed them on the table and rubbed his nose between thumb and pointer finger. "You know of the dangers of inbreeding and the current policies on childbearing."

Minerva nodded. "The _book_ has only written down thirteen names this year, thus far."

Deep worry showed on his face. "A year with only thirteen children... how many of them Muggle-born?"

Minerva snorted. "All but three. And, considering how many Muggle-borns refuse entry to Hogwarts, we may have only a handful of students."

It seemed like fate, for at that moment a rather affronted school owl swooped into the Headmaster's office, feathers ruffled and what could only be ascertained as a scowl. It dropped a letter onto the table, scratched its talons into the other papers on his desk, and sped off again, back out the window and undoubtedly toward the Owlery.

Albus placed his eyeglasses back on his crooked nose and opened the letter, eyes skimming the handwriting before putting the letter down onto his desk. It was quickly snatched up by the Deputy Headmistress.

"'_Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'_! Albus, aren't Muggle-born children supposed to be given their letter by a member of staff to prevent matters such as these?" Minerva ran a finger over the words. "Perhaps being the child of a Presbyterian Minister who accepted my mother's magic has led me to be a bit more blindsided than most, but I always hoped that as I aged, no child would refuse acceptance to our school based on the preconceived notions of a religious order!"

Dumbledore could understand his friend's anger; as a Half-blood from a prominent family, he never experienced Muggle religion, nor the prejudices which came with it. Minerva, on the other hand, had not known of her magic, nor her mother's magic, until she was nearly of Hogwarts age. She had grown up as the first child and only daughter of the Reverend Robert McGonagall, who for being of such strict faith and upbringing, accepted his wife and child's magic. Despite this, growing up in a religion where magic was considered an abomination worthy of burning, it had left its mark.

Snapping his fingers, the book and quill responsible for recording the names of all magical children in Britain appeared with a plop, the pages flipping backward toward the list of children born in 1984.

_Peculiar._

"It seems Miss Jessica Mallory is not a Muggle-born," Dumbledore said, his aged hands running across the scrolling words. "She is listed as the child of a Muggle-born and a muggle, though there does not seem to be indication from which side she receives her magical abilities from." Albus closed the book and with a _pop_ it disappeared again. "It seems we missed a child."

"Or her parent refused admission."

"Minerva," he started, but the woman held up her hand and stood, pulling out her wand and transfiguring her clothing from the green tartan robes she so adored, into a rather plain muggle dress.

"I will deal with this, Albus," she answered shortly. "You have far too much on your plate to deal with one errant family." She smiled then, and swished her wand again to pull her dark hair into a more strict bun. Minerva's lips pursed, and Albus barely held in a chuckle.

"Thank you, Professor McGonagall. I must begin letters to those of great import to those who may be willing to turn a cheek from the Ministry. There is so much work and so very little time to complete it all."

Minerva paused for a moment. "Albus, the boy..." she began, but he lifted up his hand to silence her.

"He will stay in the Hospital Wing with our dear friend Snuffles for the time being," he said, a twinkle returning to his eye. "These will be trying times for him, Minerva. He will need all the attention he can get."

"Will you be sending him back to those horrible Muggles for the holiday?"

Albus could not look into the woman's stern glare. "Minerva, I have feared and dreaded your glares since you were but a Third-Year student, fighting with me over the Exceeds Expectations you received on a Transfiguration essay." His words did not chill the woman's glare, and he sighed dispassionately. "I do not know what would be better for Mister Potter. At his relatives, there is the safety of his mother's bloodline—"

"Which very well may no longer exist, Albus!" she almost yelled, and Albus watched as her jaw clenched, "you heard Potter just as well as I did, Headmaster. _He_ took the boy's blood; you know how precious blood is, particularly to wards we have little understanding of! Lily Evans was a brilliant witch and I mourn the loss of such a great mind before its time, and her love for her child was absolute, _but _we simply cannot know the extent of her knowledge! I have seen the wards, Albus. You know better than I that what Lily performed was not a magical fluke like you've told others. It was not love which saved Harry Potter at Godric's Hollow."

"As you said, Minerva: How are we to know what Lily Potter did on that fateful night?"

"If you truly believe that, Albus, you are more of a fool than I could have ever imagined."

With that, the witch bobbed her head and excused herself from the Headmaster's Office.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall arrived on the doorstep of St. Alkmund's Church after a brisk walk from the alleyway of a barely-lit pub across the way. The air was dense and though the sun was shining above the treetops, a cloying sense of darkness wafted through the town, from the almost garishly beautiful Church.

It was a beacon of Whitchurch, Minerva had no doubt. From the intricate black and gold clock tower, with black, tan and brown stones coloring the too-blue sky, to the crest of St. Alkmund just below the clock that was carved with gentle, loving hands—this was a place of worship, yes, but so much more. It was in the windows, their colors glittering off the sun's rays, even the dead tree by the rectory which stood as silent guard.

There was something _off_ about this town.

Minerva felt a wisp of wind against her back and she shivered. The door was large and imposing; she hadn't felt this way since she received her Hogwarts letter. The first step inside her father's church left her breath cold; not from fear of God, nor her father, but of the congregation. What would they have said to the Reverend's daughter being a witch?

Though it had been many, many years ago and the fear left by the age of twelve, for some reason it trickled down into her stomach and out her pores.

Reaching forward, Minerva put her weight against the door and felt it ease open. For brief moment, Minerva wondered whether or not she entered the right place; the smoke hit her cheeks and the _smell _reminded her of the pork loin she accidentally lit on fire the first time she cooked without her mother's supervision. There was a soft sound in the air, the voices of choir children singing and the cackling of a fire. The smoke-tears stung up and the aging witch covered her mouth with the sleeve of her dress, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the sight.

The colored glass was tinted black from the smoke and the only light came from the burning mass in the center of the church. Pulling on her reserved magic, she cast a small gust to blow the wind toward the domed ceiling, clearing her view.

There must have been half the parish inside; young children, women, and the elderly sat in the pews while men stood statuesque to the sides. In the front, near the blaze, dozens of children stood, stoic faced and singing, their childish voices echoing through the church. The whites of their choir gowns were black, the whites of their eyes and the pinks of their tongues the only color against the smoke. Their voices rose higher and higher, crescendoing as another child screamed in the background.

"_Glacialis incendia!_" she screeched toward the pyre and burning child. The fires froze and the child chained to down like a beast slumped forward, still screaming. The congregation seemed to awaken from their prayers and chants, a few standing to point their fingers at her, faces purple and black with the soot of the burning child. With the diligence of a warrior, for Minerva McGonagall was named after the Goddess of Wisdom and War, she sent stunners toward the ones who dared move against her. There was little time for her to waste, stunning all the Muggles. A child needed her.

_Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live._

"**Witch!**" a man in papal robes screamed, holding out a Bible in one hand, the other clasping a cross. "You dare enter my church?" There was a woman sitting with the choir, holding a small child back from the burning girl, who stood immediately and pushed the child across the expanse of the floor toward the other children.

The choir stopped singing.

With a slash of her wand the woman flew into the alter though the man in his gaudy robes held his position, despite the sure fact that the spell should have sent him through the plate glass windows.

"Heathen, whore! You have no claim to the sorceress-child—let her burn!"

_No time_, Minerva reminded herself as she broke the chains on the girl and gently _accio_ed the burned child to her. Slowing the girl down and catching her with a feather-light charm, the witch grabbed the band from her hair and with a swift motion snapped the band in half.

She held the child as they were both portkeyed into Hogwarts.

* * *

Harry's head _throbbed_. He had been awake for an hour or so, prompted by Madam Pomfrey to '_Sit still or so help me, Potter_' and from the glare in her eyes, Harry knew better than to cross the medi-witch. So, he kept in his bed, Snuffles cuddling to his side and licking his hand and nosing him whenever he began to shake (_the cold, it's just the cold_, he would say, despite the warmth of the room and the continuing tremors down his arms and legs.) What else was he supposed to do?

_Get out of bed_, he thought with savageness, _and kill Voldemort_.

And yet, every time he attempted to wobble out of his bed, for whichever reason he told Pomfrey and Sirius, he ended up stuck to the mattress and unable to breathe, let alone move. He would stay like this for a brief moment, long enough for his lungs to ache with needed air but short enough not to cause him to faint, and when released, he had no desire to move. At first, Harry thought it a special medical spell to keep rowdy and noncomplying patients in their beds until he felt the whisper against his cheek.

This... feeling (for no other word sounded right nor felt like a suitable explanation to what he felt when the cold air would push against his cheek and a set of lips press against the shell of his ear) had been happening since he was a small child; his first memory was of the voice whispering kind words in the darkness of his cupboard after a particularly long day where he was deprived of meals and his nappy was disgusting. It had been a companion, a friend during his troubled youth. It hadn't disappeared after his acceptance into Hogwarts, but lurked in the background. It always felt as if there were a hand on his shoulder.

When he arrived at Hogwarts, having an imaginary friend wasn't acceptable; the other children would have thought him mad. Already an outsider with no real friends and no family, he tried to pretend that the voice in his head was nothing but a gust of air. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to pretend there was nothing in the darkness, it always stayed by his side.

Last night, in the graveyard with Tom Riddle, there had been no comforting hand or whispered word. Instead, he was left to the darkness of his wandering mind, the terrifyingly seductive whisper of death being the eternal bliss, to let himself go free for the Greater Good.

In short, he had been...

_Alone_.

Maybe he deserved it. Having pretended for so long that the voice was nothing but the wind, not having it when he needed his friend the most was a punishment worthy of his crime.

And now it was back, though Harry did not want it with him. The feeling of comfort was gone. Even if the voice and press of an invisible hand was all in his head (which was the most reasonable explanation for a what? Ghost with a disappearing act?) it had _betrayed_ him. In his time of need, in the moment when death had tasted Harry Potter, he was alone.

_Don't be foolish_, the voice whispered_, there were offerings to me and I have yearned for so very long..._

Harry didn't understand; offerings? What offerings? The hand brushed against his forehead and rested on the hollow of his throat.

Harry placed his hand on Snuffle's muzzle, petting it with two fingers. "Do you think I'm going crazy?"

Of course, Sirius couldn't give a vocal answer, instead choosing to slobber all over his cheeks instead.

"Yeah, thought so—"

"**Poppy! Poppy!**"

Harry pulled the curtains to his bed quickly, holding a hand out to the grim on his bed. "Shhh," he said as he pulled the white curtain farther, quickly taking in the scene before him.

Professor McGonagall stood in the center of the Hospital Wing, gray-streaked black hair billowing out from all angles, glasses skewed to the side. There was red across her cheeks and a black smudge on her nose. She wasn't wearing her normal robes, instead wearing something he was sure Aunt Petunia had in at least three different shades.

Then she turned to the side.

Harry barely held the contents of his stomach in when he caught sight of the burned mass of flesh.

"My word, Minerva—what are you going on about?" he heard Madam Pomfrey say out of his sight, "you would think—" an abrupt scream from the burned figure silenced whatever the woman had to say.

Harry clapped his hands over his ears. The screams were so _loud_.

The hand on his throat disappeared as the voice whispered something, a word Harry did not hear over the sound of the dying child.

The white-wash curtain around his bed pulled tight and the child's screams disappeared just as quickly as they had come.

* * *

_(1) This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Whenever you drink it, do this as a memorial of me. 1 Corinthians, 11-25 _

_(2) Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Exodus, 22-18_

_(3) St. Alkmund's Church is a real place—quite beautiful, actually. Though, it does not have anything to do with the Sardis Congregation—I expect someone _does_ know where it comes from._

_(4) 'Liebhaber' is the German word for Lover. Dumbledore has been canonized as having been in love with Gellert Grindelwald, though it has been said it was a one-sided relationship. Personally, I believe they were together—at least at one point._

_(5) According to Pottermore, Minerva McGonagall's father, Robert McGonagall, was a Presbyterian Minister. She was very obviously raised in the Muggle world, despite her mother having been a witch or squib. _

_**I should start giving out prizes for every time someone guesses something right with this story; really, I shove a lot into each chapter so picking up some kind of pop culture reference or religious reference should be easy. So, first order of business—properly explain what footnote 3 is and you'll get a shout-out and a preview for the next chapter? **_

_**Also, I am in the market for a BETA-READER. One that could, preferably, Brit-pick the story. However, anyone who has a good grasp of English and is willing to read the story a few days prior to publication would be fabulous. If you are interested in betaing, please send me a PM and I will get back to you instantly (literally. I have no life...) **_

**Please Review!**


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